Oneonta
by Webster
Summary: Normal is a trip to a baseball game for your fourteenth birthday, Winchester is a trip to a graveyard.  How Dean joined the family business.


Dean fingered the cards, turning them over and over in his hands. The three driver's licenses had been his fourteenth birthday present. Each bore a different name and state, but each showed the smiling face of one Dean Winchester, and each claimed the bearer had recently turned _sixteen_.

Dad had offered a smile as he placed the fake licenses in Dean's hand. "Lord knows you can already drive better than most folks on the road. And it'll be damned useful, having someone else take a shift on the long interstate hauls."

Dean's eyes lit up, and brightened further when he saw the birthdates. Dad's stare sharpened. "These are for driving the car, when I tell you to drive the car. Which will be when I am in it, or in an emergency. They are not for picking up seventeen-year-old girls in laundromats."

Dean blushed and rubbed his chin.

"And, Dean? If you want to pass for older, shave more often."

Dean frowned in confusion. He was rather proud of his chin whiskers, finally beginning to form a proper clump rather than the few stray hairs Sam loved to pull and mock on the long car rides.

"When your beard comes in all the way, it'll make you look like a man. That patchy stuff just makes your real age more obvious."

At fourteen years and three days old (sixteen and eleven days, according to the Iowa Motor Vehicles Division) Dean and Dad stood beside the door of Number Six, Bama Motel, Oneonta, Alabama, reviewing the battle plan.

"So it hasn't actually killed anyone yet?" Dean sounded disappointed that his first hunt was for a less than lethal monster.

"No, not yet, but the incidents are getting worse. Ten years ago, it was just scaring people. Three years ago, it was just bruising them. Two months ago, it sent a woman to the hospital. I'm almost sure it's the spirit of James Patterson, just based on the newspapers I found when we were still in Knoxville, but we need to check a few things more."

Dean shouldered a duffel and moved toward the door. Dad stayed half a step behind, talking to Sam, who sat at the room's small table.

"You know the drill. If the phone rings, don't pick up. If it's us, we'll ring once, then call back."

Sam sighed heavily.

"Pay attention, Sam, this is important. Keep the doors and windows locked, don't disturb the salt lines. We should be back tomorrow morning."

As Dean pushed the door open, Sam caught his eye, just once, before turning back to the spelling book.

Sam would be fine on his own. He could feed himself lunch and dinner perfectly well, and it It had been more than a year since he'd even asked when Dad was coming home.

Dean hitched the bag higher on his shoulder and stepped through the door.

For years, it had seemed that digging holes and filling them in again was Dad's favorite hobby, or rather, watching the boys do it was. Still, Dean was shocked the first time he took a shovel to an old grave. By the time he'd broken through the thick grass, he was already breathing hard. And the packed earth beneath was much heavier than the sandpits he usually practiced on. Stronger than most boys his age, Dean was still rawboned and spindly. After a mere half-hour, Dad took the shovel away and handed him a fire poker, five feet long.

"No sense wearing yourself out now. I need you alert on watch."

Smoothly, Dad bent before the grave, filling the broad shovel with black dirt and tossing it over his shoulder. He moved like a piston, moving the dense earth as easily as Dean could shovel snow. Three hours later, a rotten coffin lid crumbled.

Immediately the wind picked up, and the tree branches shook. Dean's weary head snapped up, along with the point of his tire iron.

"Hold him off, Dean!" Dad warned.

Dean scanned the night anxiously, eyes darting about as he paced around the grave. A sudden chill hit his left elbow, and he spun around, snapping the iron into the ghost's chin like an uppercut punch. The ghost dissolved at the first touch, the absence of resistance leaving Dean fighting not to topple over.

The boy recovered, snapping the poker back into a proper guard. A stray thought drifted through his mind, _ghosts are not punching bags,_ before Patterson took form again, this time trying to sneak up on Dad.

Dean swung with less force this time, aiming just to touch, as he had sparring with Sam when Sam was smaller. The results were just as satisfying.

Before the spirit could appear a third time, Dad had tossed a match into the grave and stepped clear.

"Take a look, Dean" he said, as the flames lit up the body. A few strands of hair still stuck to the skull, with some sort of jewelry gleaming around the neck. Satisfaction warred with horror as the corpse fell to ashes before Dean's eyes.

Five o'clock in the morning found them parking in a field just outside of Oneonta. The grave had been refilled and the gear neatly stowed beneath the partition in the trunk. No one had seen them. Dad turned off the engine, then stood and bent down into the back seat, popping up with two bottles of beer. He opened the first one with a quick tensing of his knuckles and presented it to Dean before cracking the second one and taking a swig.

Dean accepted the bottle with both hands, eyes wide. He tilted it and gulped, then lowered it, coughing. Once he could breathe, he tried again, more slowly this time. The taste was bitter, but the second sip went down easier than the first.

The two sat and drank in silence until the bottles were empty. Then, Dad drove them the few remaining blocks back to the hotel.

Sam was asleep sitting up on his bed, leaning back against the headboard. The TV was still on, though he'd turned the sound most of the way down.

_Kid didn't want to go to sleep alone,_ Dean realized, but between the digging, the long night, and the beer, he was already all but asleep himself, a brilliant smile on his face.

Four weeks later, Dean scowled at his textbook. _How many ghosts could there possibly be in northern Alabama,_ he wondered. That first salt-and-burn had quickly been replaced with another job, two counties west of Oneonta. Dad had shot the Black Dog, Dean provided covering fire, and the townsfolk were safe from unexpected hamstringing.

Now, Dad was working a third job, still nearby, and Dean and Sam were still living at the Bama Motel. Some things about Oneonta weren't so bad. At school, grades one through eight were all in the same building, which meant he could keep an eye on Sam now and then. They even shared a lunch period. And no one there was going to mess with Dean, nearly the oldest and tallest boy in the school. Dean's plan to slip out the back window of their room and walk around a side street to school each morning was working, and none of the other kids had any idea they lived in a cut-rate motel. Which was all great, as far as it went.

On the down side, unlike any hick school Dean had been in before, Oneonta Grammar School was pretty serious about... grammar. And spelling. And history, math, and all the rest. He was actually spending two hours a day in the Resource Room. Those words, _Resource Room,_ had been the start of his only fight so far in town, and he sometimes thought he could hear them whispered behind his back, just a little too softly to tell for sure.

Sam loved school here, he was doing fine. He could never, but never, find out about Dean and the Resource Room.

At least Dad didn't know. He'd warned Dean shortly after moving in, "This place we've got here is a pretty sweet setup. The owner will let us stay free for at least a couple months if we do some work for him, and it's close enough to school that you boys can walk. I've got a few hunts planned in this area, so here in town, we gotta stay under the radar.

So, being as Dad apparently meant to spend the entire winter in Oneonta, staying under the radar meant Dean would have to actually study and meet the Personal Goals Mrs. Hartshorne had set for him. Which meant making a decent attempt at the English paper that was due on Monday. Weekends were for hunting, and it was already Thursday, so it'd have to be finished up tonight.

There was just one problem with that scenario.

"Sam?"

"What?"

"Have you ever read Grapes of Wrath?"

"Yeah."

"What's it about?"

"Why don't you read your own school books?"

"Come on, I didn't have time last weekend, because I was hunting again, and Tuesday I had that math test, and yesterday I was fixing the landlord's car."

"Yeah. I know."

"So you'll help me write my paper. What's it about?"

"It's aBOUT a family that has to move because they lose their home, and can't find anywhere else to stay." Sam kicked the remains of the room's second chair, which had fallen apart the day before when Dean made the mistake of rocking back in it.

"What happened to 'em?"

"Drought, wrecked their farm."

"Stuff like that still happens?"

"No, it's from, like, the old days. Not that long ago, though, because there's trucks and trains."

"What else happens?"

"Look, just read the first couple chapters and the end. The middle isn't that hard to figure out."

Dean grunted and opened his bookbag. "Your turn to make dinner, Sammy. How's about mac 'n cheese?"

Another weekend, another salt-and-burn, except that Dean's third job ended with him taking a header into a tree and earning a dozen stitches. Because was his face, Dad actually sprung for a professional repair job at a small clinic a half-hour north of the job site.

By Monday morning, of course, Dean's face was every color in the rainbow and the stitches stood out, bright red and swollen. His homeroom teacher gasped and muttered and gossiped, and by the end of the day, both he and Sam were called to the principal's office.

"In the month your family has been here, Dean, you've missed school four times, and Sam two."

"It's winter. People get sick sometimes." _And Dad and I left early for that Black Dog gig, because if we waited for Saturday, it'd probably have attacked someone else._

"Hmmm. Your teachers tell me you frequently show up for school looking sleep-deprived."

"I play too many video games."

Mr. Brightman rubbed his forehead and frowned. "Sam, could you wait outside for a minute?"

"Look, Dean, if there's ever anything you want to talk about, I'm here to listen," the principal reassured him. "If you're afraid, we can protect you and your brother both."

"I told you, we were visiting our cousins up in Decatur, and I fell out of a tree. Dad sent in the doctor's note and everything."

The principal frowned, but didn't pursue it further.

"Your teachers are all impressed with the progress you've made over the past few weeks. Mrs. Wainwright was particularly impressed with your paper on the Grapes of Wrath. Keep it up, and you could be working at grade level by June and ready for regular-track classes in high school next year."

Dean tried not to yawn.

"I think what you really need is a deeper involvement in campus life. Baseball practice begins Monday, and your gym teacher wants you on the junior varsity team."

"What the... Sir, I can't. I have to watch Sam after school."

"As it happens, you aren't the only student in that situation. Younger siblings can stay in the gym during sports practice, there are a few older students and one teacher who keep an eye on them and help with homework."

"I don't LIKE baseball."

"It's the American pastime, Dean, you'll learn to like it."

"When will I have time to study?"

"You'll have time. It's only three days a week, at least until the season begins."

"If I join up, will you quit bothering me, sir?"

Baseball practice really wasn't all that bad, Dean decided a few weeks later. It didn't take long, wasn't as bad as training with Dad, and one of the girls who babysat in the gym had started giving him some not-so-subtle glances when he picked up Sam afterward.

Dad's seemingly endless supply of simple jobs in northern Alabama ran dry in late February, and he spent a week working construction two towns over, poring over the newspapers every night. Finally, one of Dad's contacts called with a job, this one all the way in Orlando.

"I'm gonna head out there by myself," he told his sons. "Shouldn't be more than three days altogether."

So Dad hit the road early Sunday morning. Three days turned into five, but Thursday afternoon when the boys returned from baseball practice, he was home again, bruised and scowling.

"Where you boys been?" he asked, as soon as they walked in.

"School."

"Didn't know it runs this late" Dad muttered, before dismissing school from consideration. "Listen, I wrapped up the job in Orlando, but I got a lead on something else on the way back, not a hundred miles from here. Think I need your backup on this one, Dean, there're people dead already. Have a look at these articles, I need to restock ammo."

As soon as the door shut behind Dad, Dean puffed up like a robin in spring. "'Need your backup, Dean,'" he repeated in a low voice.

Just then, Sam started poking him in the gut. "Deeen," he called, "You forgot to tell Dad to get more groceries."

Dean had finally managed a conversation with Sam's pretty babysitter. Her name was Justine, and she was in the seventh grade, turning thirteen next month. Her hair was just the color of Dad's jacket, and whenever she laughed, she'd duck her head and put a hand over her face.

During lunch the next day, one of the first really warm days of spring, the two found privacy behind the bleachers. Dean was sprawled out in the grass, taking up more space than seemed possible for a boy his size. Justine sat on her heels next to him, short skirt pulled down to keep the grass off her legs. She was running her fingers through his hair, and he had a hand on her knee.

"Your brother's a really sweet kid, you know," she pointed out.

Dean grunted. He wasn't sure what he wanted to talk about, but it definitely wasn't Sam.

"Everyone's so excited about next Wednesday," she went on. Dean frowned. "The first baseball game? It's a really big deal around here."

"If it's such a big deal, how come they needed New Guy to play third base?

"You got picked on pure talent, Dean. I've seen you out there, during practice." The fingers in his hair tightened possessively.

"I guess."

"I know you're going to do us proud Wednesday. Just, don't mess it up."

"What?"

"You know, when you come in all tired and whatever. Don't stay up playing video games all night. People will be really upset if you drop the ball out there."

Dean stared up at the clouds and sighed. _I'll be lucky if I'm even back by Wednesday._ "Sure. No problem."

When they hit the highway that evening, the first thing Dad said to him was, "Baseball?"

Dean slumped down in his seat. "Principal made me. He thinks I need school spirit or something."

Dad stared straight ahead, his face impossible to read. "School ain't haunted. I checked," was what he finally said. "Open up that case file and have a look."

Relieved, Dean started leafing through the articles.

"Six? Just in the past year?"

"Yep, six kids, all younger than Sam."

"Do you have a theory yet?"

"Could be a lot of things, but my money's on rawhead."

"What's that?"

"A version of a boogieman, common here in the Deep South. Snatches children, sometimes eats them."

"How do we kill it?"

"It takes a powerful electric shock, more than strong enough to kill most humans. But the first step is to find the lair. They tend to see out caves, basements, or other small dark spaces." Dad fished a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Dean.

"Pull out the local map and start working on possible hiding spots. I've got all the kids' addresses."

Dean opened the street map of Rome, Georgia and began marking homes. They formed a neat cluster northwest of the river bend. "Are rawheads smart enough to grab kids far away from their lair?" he asked.

Dad grinned. "No, not that I've ever heard."

"What do they look like?"

"Ugliest thing you've ever seen. Head like a wild pig wearing Bob Marley's hair."

Dean read on as they drove. By the time they reached Rome, he was well versed in the sad biographies of six tiny children and in the ways of rawheads.

"This job won't be quick," Dad warned, as he pulled off the Interstate. "You're probably gonna miss that game Wednesday,"

Dean thought of the photo of the third missing child, a girl with her hair fixed in a cloud of braids and a fat little fist in her mouth. "So what?"

"Fair enough. Now, how do I get to the first kid's house?"

Dean quickly mapped out a route, and Dad pulled to a stop a few doors down from the victim's house. He dug through the glove compartment and selected a badge, then paused. "Got any ideas on where that lair might be?"

"A few."

"Take a drive around the neighborhood, see if you see any likely spots. Do NOT get out of the car. Meet me back here in one hour."

Dean accepted the keys solemnly, tilted the mirror down, and drove off.

Dad spent four days interviewing desperate parents and baffled policement, while Dean visited museums, libraries and schools, looking for rumors. Their search of the neighborhood turned up a few possible hiding places, but nothing definite.

Wednesday morning, he woke to the familiar sound of Dad setting breakfast on a table.

"Eat fast," Dad ordered, "Another child was taken out of his bed last night. And I took a look at the house. Smelled like green rot and oranges, so definitely a rawhead."

They set aside interviews in favor of searching for the lair all day. "I'm going to have to keep out of sight," Dad confessed. "This morning, one of the cops saw me prowling around the house. Had to book in a hurry."

Desperately hoping to find the newest victim in time for rescue, they split up, Dean taking the streets and Dad more secluded areas,

They searched for hours, stopping only briefly to eat. When the sun had already dipped below the treeline, finally Dean's walkie-talkie crackled. "Number Sixteen Oak Street," was all Dad said.

They met up again across the street from the property in question. It was heavily overgrown and the house boarded up, an out-of-place eyesore in an otherwise tidy neighborhood.

"I smell it too," Dean said.

Dad snorted. "Smell it? I _saw_ it through the window. We've got another problem, though. I had a line on some tasers, but he can't get them for me until tomorrow at the earliest. Which means there's no way to kill it."

Dean looked up, and his gaze settled on a transformer, sitting at the edge of the property. "I've got an idea."

Dean waited a few more minutes for darkness, then scaled the telephone pole. He switched off a line on the transformer's output side, then cut it and moved it around to the transformer's input voltage, leaving it unpowered.

"In voltage: 40,000," he read. "This wire can probably carry that, but not for long. And the cut end will be really dangerous. If you leave it on the grass, the grass could catch fire. And if it even touches you..."

"I can imagine." Dad put in.

"I think I need to leave the wire dead until we're ready for it."

Dad nodded, accepting his plan. "You watch from the pole. When I give a yell, throw the switch."

Dean scaled the next pole and cut his wire free to trail on the ground. Dad picked it up, cut the insulation back a few inches, and did his best to attach a sharpened antenna. He carefully taped the insulation back into place. Then he remembered Dean's warnings about the wire being too weak, and wrapped most of the roll of tape around the end of the insulation, until he had a weapon that looked like a black-hilted rapier.

As Dean watched from his perch, Dad approached the lair. He disdained sneaking in favor of drawing out his enemy, and the enemy obliged. Before he could step in the door, the rawhead came barreling through it. The two wrestled, but finally Dad managed to back the creature into a corner and impale it with his skewer.

"Now, Dean!" Dad yelled. And Dean threw the switch. Sparks flew as the monster convulsed, then fell to the ground limply. Its rags smoldered.

"Pretty clever plan," Dad declared, as Dean walked up to the corpse.

They crept into the lair, Dean half a step behind his father, electric harpoon still held at the ready, though it had no more power. The lair was filled with old rubbish, broken furniture, and what appeared to be stray car parts. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sensed movement. He spun around, raising his pistol, only to lower it again, slowly. He gestured Dad to silence and stepped forward.

Long since terrorized into silence, a little boy huddled in the corner. A single tear leaked down his dirty cheek. Dean drew closer, one step at a time, moving as if trying to stalk a deer. Two steps away, Dean stopped and dropped to his knees. All at once, the child drew in a breath and threw himself at the bigger boy.

Dad smiled. "Take him to the nearest house and call the police, tell 'em you were playing by the creek and found him. You're young enough to show up with a missing kid and not get arrested for kidnapping."

The kid was heavier than he looked, but Dean didn't let go until his mother came.


End file.
